Hanging on a Moment
by Dendera
Summary: There is an air of childlike vulnerability that hangs about him. Peeking behind the carefully constructed bravery is a grieving boy still shy of nineteen. In spite of all they have faced, they are still so painfully young.


**Title:** Hanging on a Moment

**Author**: Dendera

**Story Rating:** PG

**Notes: **This story contains massive spoilers for book seven, _Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows_. Consider yourselves forewarned. This story may not be taken or re-produced without my consent. Please e-mail me if you would like to request it for other off-site fan fiction archives.

* * *

They sit side by side on the floor of his attic bedroom, their backs against the frame of his bed. It's not quite dark yet, but the light is quickly fading, filtering through the small single window in feeble, dust-speckled rays. 

"You don't have to stay," he tells her, but the broken rasp in his voice betrays his survivor's façade. He means to imply that he is strong; a man capable of protecting himself, of protecting her, but there is an air of childlike vulnerability that hangs about him. Peeking behind the carefully constructed bravery is a grieving boy still shy of nineteen. In spite of all they have faced, they are still so painfully young.

She reaches a tender, timid hand towards his and rests it there. "I don't mind," Hermione is still training herself to feel comfortable with these small, intimate gestures. While her feelings for him are nothing new, the closeness certainly is. It doesn't feel awkward, per se, just clumsy.

He gratefully accepts her touch, intertwining his fingers with hers. "But your mum and dad, they're still in Australia. Don't you want to go and get them?"

She shakes her head briefly. "They're safe and happy for the time being. A few more days of believing they're different people can't hurt."

Ron looks at her, seeming to struggle between concern and guilt. "Don't you miss them? Don't you want to be with them now that it's finished? 'Cause, I could understand if you did..."

_Finished_. In the two days since Harry's triumph over Voldemort, there has hardly been a moment's peace. After the initial elation and relief had worn off, the heavy realization of all that had been lost had finally set in. So many families had been shattered by the Dark Lord and his thirst for domination; she almost felt guilty for her own having remained miraculously intact. The Weasleys who had suffered so much already…it didn't seem right to leave them now, not when she was needed. And the person who needed her most was finally sitting beside her in the fleeting twilight; their first moment alone together in what seemed like ages. Hermione was sure that her parents, once they were returned to their true state of mind, would understand her cause for delay.

She leans into him, resting her head against his shoulder. "Yes, I miss them," she says quietly, "but right now, I want to be here. With _you_."

He squeezes her hand and in the growing darkness, she can see the imperceptible nod of his head. There is a moment of silence between them, silence that is suddenly broken by his tremulous voice.

"I'm sorry, Hermione."

She is puzzled by this declaration and sits up to face him, "For what?"

"I shouldn't have left you and Harry." His tone is flat with self-deprecation. "I was such a bloody coward. I've never been brave; not like Harry. Not like Bill and Charlie; George and Fred…"

"Ron--" For one terrible moment, she's afraid one of them might cry, but then Ron's voice returns and it's the saddest thing she's ever heard.

"I don't know why you'd want to stay with me."

"Ron," she tries again, and her voice catches with emotion. "That's not true, and deep down you _must _know it."

He turns away from her, ashamed. "I _left _you, Hermione. And I wasn't there to stop you from being tortured. Right prince charming _I _am."

"Well," she vainly attempts some humor, "it's a fortunate thing I don't want a prince, isn't it?"

There is no reply on his part and she fears that, again in her ineptness, she has said the wrong thing.

"I don't deserve you.." He sighs deeply, "I guess that's what I'm trying to say."

His defeated tone both confuses and worries her, and she struggles to find the words to articulate her argument. When they do come, they are fuelled by both pride in him and in herself.

"It took courage to come back to us, and to follow Harry into that lake," she tells him firmly. "And it took brains and resourcefulness to think of the basilisks fangs as a weapon against the Horcruxes. What about speaking Parseltongue? Even _I _couldn't have done that!" He says nothing, so she decides to fill the emptiness. "And fighting against Voldemort and his Death Eaters, giving Harry the time he needed to plot his strategy, do you think that was _nothing_?"

Hermione leans forward and turns his face towards hers. Beneath her fingers, she feels dampness on his cheek. "You are _terribly _brave, Ron," her own voice feels thick in her throat. "That's why I lov--" The unfinished word hovers in the air between them, waiting to be snatched and realized. Ron stares hard into her wide eyes, looking both hopeful and terrified.

She swallows hard, "…why I love you."

And before she can quite grasp what's going on, Ron's hands are cupping her face and he's kissing her with such eager relief that it's all she can do to keep from losing her balance. She wraps her arms around him and returns it; this, their second official kiss. Several long moments pass before they both feel the need to come up for air. Ron can't bring himself to release her, and holds her tightly.

"Me too," he tells her. And even in the dim light she can tell that his cheeks have gone red. "I mean, I love you too. I have for a long time, I guess." He sounds amazed, as if awed by the words themselves. "All those years of mucking around. Wasting time on Fleur and Lavender…never telling you how I felt. Never showing you until it was almost too late…I'm sorry."

She smiles weakly at him, touched. "Well, you're not entirely to blame. I ought to have told you too."

He pulls her to him and engulfs her in a clumsy hug that sends waves of warmth rippling through her body. "Yeah, instead of swooning over that Krum." There is playfulness in the remark, which is why she doesn't feel the familiar urge to become cross.

"I beg your pardon, Ronald," she says somewhat loftily, her reply sounding muffled against his chest, "but you might have spoken up sooner. And for your information, there was _never _any swooning."

He chuckles at her emphasis of never, evidentially satisfied, and then pauses abruptly. "How long?" He inquires, both hesitant and curious.

"What do you mean?"

Hermione feels his fingers in her hair, idly fingering a long strand. "Er, How long have you…you know, felt this way…about me?"

She stirs a bit in his arms, uncomfortable with the question, not because she considers it arrogant or impertinent, but rather because it requires so much honesty. Deep within her, she still harbors the silly fear that there was once a time when she was the only one doing the fancying. It isn't the fact that he had chased after other girls in the past; it's that he might never considered her _worth _chasing.

"I never understood you those first few years, Ron. You were so…so infuriating. And you confused me with your teasing; I never knew what to think." There is a moment of contemplation before she continues, "But the summer after our third year, I suppose I started thinking of you and Harry differently--"

She can feel him stiffen at the mention of their mutual best friend's name. "Harry?" His voice sounds strained.

Hermione can guess what he's imagining. "No, it's not what you think. I only meant that I looked at you both in a different light. Harry, you see, has always felt like more than just a friend; closer to a brother, really. But you, Ron, I wasn't sure what to make of you. There were times when I wanted to strangle you for being so insensitive and then there were days when…" She feels the tears stinging her eyes, that familiar and most dreaded feeling of inadequacy. "…when I just wanted you to _see _me."

"'See you'?" There is bewilderment as he repeats her words. "What d'you mean? Hermione, we've spent almost every day together for the last seven terms--"

"Yes," she admits, attempting to clarify, "but you never seemed to be aware of me. I was always just _there_, with you or Harry, practically blending into the walls like some permanent fixture. I suppose…I was never enough to be really noticed. Nothing exotic, like Fleur, or flirtatious like Lavender…"

When he finally responds, his voice is unusually quiet, stunned. "But, I did see you. I've _always _seen you." He interrupts himself, changing tracks, "I know I've been a git, and I know there've been times when I treated you like you were just the brains--"

"That's just it," she interjects, "I was only ever the 'clever one', or worse, the insufferable know-it-all--"

"No!" His insistence is accompanied by the infamous Weasley stubbornness she has come to know so well. "I mean, yeah, maybe I used to feel that way when we were younger and I was prat; but, I've known for a long time that you're _more _than that. We never would've gotten where we are without you, Hermione. I should've said it ages ago." He tightens his hold on her, pressing her closer. "This whole year, I haven't seen anyone _but _you. You're all I want to see."

His earnestness lulls her into a moment of quiet, and she is moved by his candid confession. She closes her eyes, her head against his chest, and allows the feeling of being wanted wash over her like sunlight. His even breathing and the steady beating of his heart are a gentle, reassuring rhythm and the resulting peace soothes her fears.

"Hermione…did you fall asleep?"

She has to chuckle at the absurdity of the question and the sweet timidity in his voice as he asks it. "No," she tells him. "I was just thinking."

"About what?" He still sounds anxious, as if nervous for her reply.

This time, when she touches his face, she does so without a trace of embarrassment. "About how long I've waited for you to say something like that," and she finds the courage to kiss him again.

He looks as though he could get used to this. Grinning a bit madly, he assures her, "I have plenty more where that came from."

She slips her arms around his neck and smiles, "I hope so."

"Hermione," he says her name again, sounding oddly serious. His grin falters and fades. "Can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"Will you…uh…will you marry me?"

She is understandably flabbergasted by the suddenness of this unusual proposal, but manages to find her voice a few awkward moments later. "Ron…we've only just turned _eighteen_…"

She can see he's trying (and failing) not to look crestfallen at her startled reply. "Yeah, well, it doesn't have to be now, but…you know, someday…? Because I _do _love you, Hermione, and that won't change. I don't care about other girls, and you know Mum and Dad already think of you as part of the family." He abandons his plea, looking abruptly cross with himself. "Bloody hell, I've gone and messed that up, haven't I? I should've had a ring or something first…er, can I have another go at this?"

Her smile reappears and blossoms into a grin, in fact, she's smiling so hard, her face begins to hurt. "Yes," Hermione tells him, laughing. "Yes!"

"Really? I can try it again? Because I'll do it better next time. More romantic and everything." He stops, his brow wrinkling in confusion. "Wait a minute; which bit did you say 'yes' to? The second chance or the _actual _marrying me?"

"Both?"

This sparks a slow, sprawling smile. "Brilliant…" he exhales the word, awed. "When can we tell Harry?"

It's cute, she thinks, that the first person he wants to confide in is their best friend. And altogether natural. She certainly doesn't mind; however…

"Not just now," Hermione whispers, resting her cheek in the hollow where his neck meets his shoulders. "A few more minutes…" He gladly gives them to her, laying his head upon hers until the minutes stretch on and she can't feel anything but this enveloping sense of utter contentment.

The light has gone from the room, leaving them in nearly total darkness, save for the thin strip emitting weakly from underneath his door. Several floors beneath them, the sounds of Mrs. Weasley, clambering to get dinner on the table, can be heard. Bill's, Percy's, and Mr. Weasley's voices ring out from the garden below. In spite of all of the recent horrors and hardships they have been forced to endure, this one peaceful moment seems to catch itself in the fabric of time and stand still.

They stay like that a while longer.


End file.
